


Times Gone By

by ThayerKerbasy



Series: What Comes Next [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Christmas, Episode: s05e21 Two Minutes to Midnight, Family Don't End in Blood, Gen, POV Crowley (Supernatural), Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: Without any way to keep time, it was easy to lose track of the days in Heaven.  Crowley didn't so much mind, but some of his new friends needed something to occupy them.





	Times Gone By

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the rest of this series, please do yourself a favour and start at [the beginning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11367363) or this won't make much sense.
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to [Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510) for fixing my occasional errors and making my stories better.

Nobody knew how long it had been since they got the TV working. Of course that’s because time had no meaning in Heaven and there wasn’t a functional clock to be found anywhere, but still, without hours or days, the non-existent time dragged on. What had originally seemed like a simple project — making it possible to search the TV channels for specific content — had turned out to be much more difficult than anyone had initially thought.

It was Charlie who realized what they all needed. While flicking through the channels via Crowley’s surveillance cameras, she stopped abruptly and set down the remote. “Guys! Holy crap, it’s Christmastime!”

Crowley looked up from where he was arguing with Rufus about which spell components would work best to handle targeting. Sure enough, on the television screen was Casey’s General Store, all decked out for the holidays. Cheap cardboard cutouts of reindeer hung on strings suspended from the dividing grid in the drop ceiling and tinsel garlands added sparkle to several displays. A sign covered in glittery snowflakes proclaimed, “Hot chocolate 89 cents only for a limited time!”

In the face of Charlie’s utter glee, Crowley found it difficult to be negative, but if anything he had to be the voice of reason. “Your Highness, need I remind you that our television is not bound to the flow of linear time? While it may, indeed, be Christmas, it might also be the middle of June. You _know_ that. And the moment we change the channel, it’ll be somewhen else entirely.”

“So?” replied Charlie. “Who says it needs to actually _be_ Christmas? There’s no real flow of time up here, right? So if I say it’s Christmas, then what the heck, it can be Christmas!”

From his place at the bar, Frank said, “She’s right, you know.”

“Hell yeah, it’s Christmas!” Ash shouted from behind the bar.

As no one knew how long they had been there, and since they were staring down the barrel of eternity, new ideas were immeasurably valuable. Once spoken aloud, no one was going to dispute Charlie’s claim that it was Christmas. It took what felt like perhaps a minute to round up everyone in the bar to discuss it.

Predictably it was Rufus who objected. “Now, I _know_ you’re all aware that we don’t all share the same faith here. I’m Jewish, there’s a few Christians, and the rest of you don’t believe in squat. How’s that supposed to work with something like Christmas? It’d be like me suggesting we all celebrate Hanukkah.”

“That’s not entirely true,” replied Frank, who had opted to join in on the conversation. “Christmas didn’t start off as a Christian holiday. It was the Winter Solstice before that, and those old timey Christians co-opted the holiday for themselves to make it more popular with their converts. And let’s be honest here, chestnuts. Christmas hasn’t been about religion for a stupidly long time now. It’s all a scheme to convince impressionable schmucks to go into debt so little Suzy can have everything she ever wanted under the tree once a year.”

Charlie rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You guys are missing the point. Christmas isn’t about any of that. I mean, sure it’s technically a Christian holiday that used to be a pagan holiday, and yes, people spend way too much on presents, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Christmas is about family and spending time with the people you care about.”

“And spiked eggnog!” added Ash.

Holding up a hand, Charlie waited for Ash to high five her before continuing, “Now you’re getting it. Christmas is food and drinks and decorations and just plain _fun_. So, who’s in?”

It was visible to anyone with eyes; the moment Ash said “spiked eggnog”, Rufus gave in, though he still waited for a few people to agree before grumbling, “As long as we’re doing a strictly secular thing, I suppose I could be persuaded to participate.”

Throughout it all, Crowley remained silent. He wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the concept of Christmas, but in his day he’d been raised pagan and had celebrated the Winter Solstice by staying out of his mother’s way and getting his chores done while she worked her magic. Later, after she abandoned him, Christmas was a church service and a box of donations from the well-to-do. Then of course, after he had become a demon, Christmas was simply a good day for business. It had never been the thing of joy which Charlie described. Not for him.

He thought he had been doing a good job of keeping his thoughts off his face, but all the same, Charlie said, “Crowley, you’ve been awful quiet. I hope you’re not thinking about ducking out on us. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Rufus added, “If I’m gonna be part of this, then you’d better believe you are, too.”

“Oh, he’s in,” said Frank. “I refuse to suffer alone.”

It was beyond difficult to resist responding to that, so Crowley didn’t even bother trying. “Far be it from me to pass up the chance to partake in your suffering, Frankie boy. Should I expect to be tied up with tinsel and flogged with pine branches?”

“Crowley!” Charlie reprimanded him with a look, which was actually about as menacing as a kitten.

Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Crowley replied, “Alright, alright, you win. I’ll make merry with you. Where do we start?”

Charlie grinned. “I know just the place. Oh man, this is gonna be _great!_ ”

Crowley had his doubts, but he was wise enough to keep them to himself. When Charlie made up her mind about something, there was no stopping her.

*

Frank and Rufus rather emphatically volunteered to stay behind and explain to the others what was going on when they eventually returned, which left Ash, Charlie, and Crowley to procure Christmas things. Crowley wasn’t entirely ignorant of modern Christmas — he had seen shop windows and TV advertisements, not to mention it had been the most profitable season for the soul trade — but he was at a loss as to where one would procure such things in Heaven. Charlie seemed to have a plan, though, so he gamely followed along and watched as Charlie drew the sigil for her own personal heaven on the Roadhouse door.

Shortly after Crowley had used a portion of his soul to banish an angel from his son’s heaven, it was decided that they should each ward their own heavens against intruders. Paired off, they took turns looking out for one another while recovering from the strain of using soul magic. It had been quite the endeavour, but it meant that they could safely travel between their various heavens without attracting unwanted angel attention.

Crossing the threshold of the Roadhouse door took them instantly from Ash’s heaven to Charlie’s. Crowley and Charlie had been friends for some time, having discovered early on a shared interest in the same sorts of pop culture. All the same, neither had ever seen the other’s heaven, so Crowley was unprepared for the riot of colour that assaulted his eyes.

Lights were strung around every window while tinsel sparkled along the walls and around every door frame. Paper snowflakes decorated the windows and the walls, varying in complexity from childish to intricately detailed. In the far corner of the room stood the tree, decked out in a wide variety of ornaments and lights, from simple silver balls to little wooden figures to handmade pipe cleaner and clothespin creations, and on the top, a light up golden star.

On the sofa sat a man who looked to be in his thirties, dressed in a robe and nursing a cup of coffee. Seated on the floor beside the tree was a redheaded woman who also appeared to be in her thirties, dressed in plaid pajamas. Their resemblance to Charlie made their identities quite clear, but even if it hadn’t, Charlie’s wistful expression said the rest.

The woman on the floor reached under the tree and pulled out a squarish present wrapped in cheerful red and green paper. “Celeste, sweetie? This one’s for you.”

She offered the present to Charlie, whose clothing had become two-piece red plaid pyjamas. Charlie accepted the gift seemingly without hesitation, a soft smile on her lips and a tender look in her eyes. It was a look Crowley was relatively sure he had worn himself in his own heaven memories.

From behind them both, Ash chuckled. “Celeste, huh? Your name is _Celeste?_ Nice PJs, Celeste.”

She didn’t fire back with a retort or defense, but instead looked at the package in her hands and said, “It feels like a book. Did you get me a book, Mom?”

Crowley remembered all too well how irresistable his memories were when he gave them an opening. For whatever reason, Charlie had adhered to her heaven’s script, allowing the memory to tighten its hold on her. The longer she played along, the harder it was to break free.

Without wasting another moment, Crowley tapped Charlie’s shoulder. “Your Highness? Er…Celeste? Come on, snap out of it, Charlie!”

Pausing in the middle of unwrapping her gift, Charlie turned away from the cheerful Christmas scene, her fingers tightening on what did indeed look like a book under the wrapping. What had initially been a smile of pure, innocent joy tightened under strain. Speaking softly, as if to avoid disturbing the festivities, she said, “I can’t watch or I’ll just get stuck in the Matrix again. Can you two handle the tree? Just unplug the lights and take the whole thing out, Grinch-styles.”

Between them, Ash and Crowley were able to get the tree out without too much difficulty, though a few ornaments fell off and a few more got broken when they shoved the tree through the door. Ash went with the tree and Crowley waited to make sure Charlie didn’t get left behind. He returned to find her stroking the cover of the unwrapped book with her thumb.

“My mom used to give me new books every year for Christmas and my birthday,” said Charlie. “She introduced me to so much good stuff. She’s why I’m…me.”

A glance down at the book’s cover revealed _The Neverending Story_. Behind Charlie, her mother continued to reenact the events of that long ago Christmas morning, even though Charlie wasn’t participating. The sight sparked an idea.

“Tell you what,” said Crowley. “Hold out your arms, but don’t look. You’re going to carry back a few things.”

It didn’t take long to gather up every present bearing Charlie’s birth name and a few others besides. When they both had their hands full, they staggered back to the door.

The peculiarities with Heaven time meant never knowing how much time everyone else had experienced in their absence. When Crowley and Charlie returned to the Roadhouse of Ash’s heaven, the tree was set up just off to the side of the front door while the wall behind the bar was covered in paper snowflakes. At one end of the bar, there was also a small tree made of beer coasters notched together. At the other end, there was what looked like a menorah made of shot glasses with the bar’s emergency candles in them. Frank and Rufus sat with what appeared to be their own creations, both looking proud of themselves.

As Crowley and Charlie took in their altered surroundings with their arms full of gifts, Jo and Eileen rushed forward to relieve them of some of their burdens. Crowley happily handed over half of what he carried and set the rest down beneath the Christmas tree while the others did the same.

From behind the bar, Ellen called over, “Took you two long enough to get back. Now, who wants eggnog?”

Once everyone was comfortably seated with a glass of eggnog — not everyone took theirs with rum, but the majority happily did — the group updated Crowley and Charlie as to what had been accomplished in their absence. Most of the things, like the tree and decorations, were clearly visible. Ellen had popped out for eggnog, which had taken a good couple hours of bar time, while Jo and Eileen had gone out for festive foods, but managed to return with everything after only a minute or two. Crowley and Charlie had been gone for over a day after Ash had returned, but they had come to expect such things from Heaven.

As Charlie explained her side of things, Crowley considered the details of the idea that had sparked in Charlie’s heaven. Near as he could tell, it seemed sound. 

Once everyone had been brought up to speed, he said, “Bearing all that in mind, I had a thought. Visiting our own heavens isn’t always the safest, lest we get lost in our own memories. However, it’s perfectly safe to visit the heavens of others, so I have a proposal for you all: What say we visit each others heavens and pick out things to bring back for the owner of said heaven.”

Sitting at a table with Eileen, sipping highly-spiked eggnog, Jo exclaimed, “Like a Secret Santa!”

“Well, that’s not exactly what—” Crowley began.

“Great idea!” Ellen spoke over him. “We can all draw names. Good thinkin’, Crowley.”

Far be it from him to argue with that. He raised his glass in acknowledgement and left the planning to the others. As far as he was concerned, his part was done.

*

Ellen expectantly shook the beer pitcher of folded papers in Crowley’s direction. “C’mon, this was your idea. Pick a name an’ let’s get this party started.”

Once upon a time, Crowley would have protested and demanded superior treatment. Those days were long done. Far easier to give in. Besides, it was for his friends, right?

With a sigh, he reached into the pitcher and took a folded scrap of paper which he unfolded to reveal, “Frank? Oh bloody hell.”

“Crowley!” said Jo. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “It was never going to be a secret. Even if someone else drew the appropriate heaven’s sigil, we’d all know who was going there as soon as someone left the room.”

“I’m sure I coulda come up with somethin’,” grumbled Jo, but mercifully she let it go.

Or perhaps not so mercifully after all. If she had protested a little more or if he had conceded her point, he might have been able to draw a new name. Instead, he was stuck visiting Frank’s heaven.

The others took turns drawing names — Eileen had to choose twice because she got her own name — until everyone had been chosen. Looking around the room, Crowley wondered who had gotten his name. Then it hit him: someone was going to visit his heaven without him there.

Not only was one of his friends going to visit his heaven, but they were going to visit his best memory. Someone he gave a damn about was going to see that pathetic excuse for a scrap of happiness and would likely end up pitying him. The thought was almost enough to make him back out, except that he didn’t want to seem cowardly.

“Alright people,” said Ellen, “here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna get your person to draw their sigil for you on the door so you can go visit their heaven. We’re gonna take turns doin’ that ‘til everyone’s done it, then we can exchange stuff.”

Bill chuckled and patted her shoulder. “Real poetic, darling.”

“What?” replied Ellen. “You got a problem with it?”

While Bill and Ellen lovingly bickered, Bobby rolled his eyes. “Alright gang, let’s leave them to their…that, an’ we can get this show on the road. Jo, why don’t you go first, kiddo.”

Sparing a moment for an amused glance at her parents, Jo shrugged. “‘Kay. I got Ash, so I don’t gotta go nowhere.”

“Well, alright then,” replied Bobby. “Eileen, how ‘bout you go next.”

Eileen grinned and elbowed Rufus. “I got this old fart. Send me on my way, Rufus.”

With a dismissive snort, Rufus replied, “Gladly. Get the hell out of here, you.”

It was hard enough knowing someone was going to visit his heaven, but Crowley knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else if he knew who it was, so the moment Eileen was gone, he spoke up. “Anyone mind if I go next? No one? Wonderful. Frank, you shining beacon of sunlight, come unlock your heaven for me, sweetheart.”

“You got it, sugar plum,” replied Frank, getting up to draw his heaven’s sigil.

Crowley had a vague notion of what he would find upon passing through the Roadhouse door into Frank’s heaven, and he’d even managed to nail a couple of the details, but he’d been wrong about everything that mattered. He had been so sure that Frank’s heaven was like his own — full of unsatisfying memories of feeling unwanted — but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

If the mellow yellow walls didn’t scream 70s kitchen on their own, the pistachio green appliances and caramel-patterned linoleum flooring certainly sealed the deal. A much younger Frank sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper between bites of his breakfast. Across the table from him sat a conventionally pretty woman in her mid-twenties with auburn Farrah Fawcett hair. Two children occupied the other chairs — a boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, and a girl a few years older.

As Crowley watched, a peaceful domestic scene unfolded. The family ate their breakfast, Frank read his newspaper, the children rambled about things which only children found significant, and Frank’s wife dealt with the mess of cooking before sitting down with her own food. They weren’t perfect, but for the most part they seemed like a typical American family.

Frank finished his food, then folded up the newspaper and set it aside. Coffee in hand, he took his time enjoying it while listening to his children, who were by then picking at the last of their food. Frank’s wife still had most of her breakfast before her, but still listened to the children with a hint of a smile.

Nothing of any real significance happened. There were no major life-altering conversations, no grand climactic emotional moments, just a normal Sunday breakfast for Frank Devereaux and his family. Crowley had often wished for a similar memory.

Before it could be reclaimed, Crowley snatched up the newspaper, then looked around the room for anything else. There wasn’t much for the taking — at least, nothing that seemed worth remembering — but there were a few things. The oven mitt decorated with an array of sunflowers joined the newspaper, as did the brown ceramic teapot, but everything else paled in comparison to the fridge covered in the children's art and school work. Crowley made certain to grab each and every paper off the fridge.

He was about to leave when movement caught his eye. Frank’s wife stood to gather the breakfast dishes, pausing to give Frank a brief kiss in passing. When she leaned down to kiss him and collect his plate, a tiny golden pendant swung free around her neck.

Crowley set down everything else he had collected so he could walk up behind her and unclasp her necklace. He didn’t stop to look at it, but rushed to get the return sigil drawn before the memory could reset. Once it was complete, he snatched up the rest of his finds and barged through the door, stumbling across the threshold into Ash’s Roadhouse heaven.

Only Charlie, Eileen, Jo, and Bill remained to greet him, each with a table of things covered by whatever concealing item they could find. Following their lead, Crowley set down his treasures and covered them with his black Carhartt. With Frank’s memories thus kept secret, he poured himself a drink and settled in to wait for the others.

As he waited, he tried his best not to think about who might have been roaming about his heaven. At the very least, Ash and Bobby knew the sigil for his heaven, so either one of them could have opened the door for someone else. There was no way for him to know who was looking at his happiest memory or what they might think of it.

Over what felt like the next several hours, people began to trickle back in, each carrying and trying to keep hidden their scavenged items. Frank didn’t bother hiding anything, instead dropping a box of chocolates and a pair of fuzzy slippers on the table directly in front of Charlie.

“You and Satan Claus over there pillaged your heaven pretty thoroughly, so that’s what was left,” said Frank.

Ignoring Frank’s grumbling, Charlie popped the slippers on her feet and immediately dug into her box of chocolates. “No Christmas weight gain in Heaven!”

Once the last person had returned, Bill took charge. “Alright people, let’s try to keep this orderly. Take turns and don’t barrel over someone else’s time.”

Since Frank had delivered his gifts straight away, Crowley beckoned over the old grump with a crooked finger. Frank sauntered over with a smirk on his lips which faded away when Crowley lifted away the shirt covering the pile.

Frank’s hands appeared to move of their own volition, reaching out to trace the surface of the teapot. “This was the first thing we bought for our new home. Picked it up at a yard sale for a nickel.” He then picked up the oven mitt. “And this! Becca made this. Bought the fabric and swore she’d use it for something. There’s a matching apron somewhere.”

Moving the oven mitt had uncovered the necklace atop the kids’ drawings, so when Frank looked back down, he saw both. His eyes glistened and the hand that reached out to the treasures was shaking, but rather than touch either of them, he turned and wrapped Crowley in a tight hug. “You magnificent bastard,” he rasped in Crowley’s ear. “You did good.”

There was no maintaining decorum in such a situation, though Crowley did his best. He awkwardly patted Frank on the back and replied, “Yes, well, all I did was pillage your heaven. Missed out on the silverware though. I suppose I’m not cut out for home invasion.”

Not to be deterred, Frank gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Shut your flapping noise hole, you self-deprecating ass. I’m trying to say thanks.”

“Love you, too, sugar lips,” replied Crowley, donning his practiced flirty smile.

“Yeah yeah,” said Frank, “save it for later, lover boy. Right now, I’ve got artwork to admire.”

Shrugging his outer layer back on, Crowley nearly bumped into Bobby, who had the misfortune to approach him from the wrong direction. “Apologies, I didn’t see you there.”

“S’alright,” said Bobby, “it’s your stuff.”

So saying, he turned around and laid out his armload of things on the bar. Leaving Frank with his memories, Crowley moved to investigate, but pulled up short at a thought. “Out of all the people who might have drawn my name, it just so happened to be you?”

Bobby shrugged. “I mighta maybe traded. I knew this whole thing bothered you, so I figured it’d be easiest if it was someone you knew from before.” Pausing a moment, he continued with a hint of a smile. “Not to mention, Rufus was harassin’ me to trade ‘cause he wanted to surprise Eileen. Idjit treats her like one o’ the fellas but I suspect she’s more like his daughter.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, so Crowley dredged up a smile. “Always nice to know I’m worth trading away.”

“Just shut up an’ look at your stuff already,” replied Bobby.

Conceding with a facial shrug, Crowley reached out to lift the plaid flannel jacket off the top. It seemed familiar, but then, he had seen a great many plaid flannels in his dealings with the Winchesters.

“Case you were wonderin’, that was mine,” added Bobby. He then walked around to the other side of the bar and poured himself a pint.

Setting the jacket to one side, Crowley examined the remaining items. A worn-in pair of work boots sat beside a rather unassuming sickle, atop which rested an iPhone 3G. He knew immediately which memory Bobby had seen, and his stomach churned at the idea of anyone else seeing it instead. At the time it had felt marvelous, filling an emptiness he hadn’t been aware of before that moment, but he had changed a great deal since then and he couldn’t think of anyone else who could possibly understand.

“Bobby,” Crowley said, “I was wrong for not returning your soul after the apocalypse. We were doing so well and then I had to go and ruin it by holding on too tight.”

Bobby raised his beer and drank before replying, “All’s well that ends well, right? ‘Sides, the past is in the past. That feelin’ you’re feelin’ now? That’s why you ended up here an’ not back in the pit. So quit your bellyachin’ an’ enjoy the damn moment. I even brought you boots that’ll fit you better ‘n the ones you got on now.”

Much as Crowley enjoyed wearing Dean’s dependable hiking boots, he had to admit boots that fit him better would have been more comfortable. Taking a seat on a nearby chair, Crowley slipped out of the boots that had served him so well, then tried on the boots which had so recently been worn by a wheelchair-bound Bobby. The size difference was negligible, which meant they were easily better than the old boots. Bobby had obviously unlaced the boots in order to get them off his past self’s feet, so while Crowley laced them up again, he considered the memory from which they had come.

Rewriting Bobby’s soul contract to return the use of his legs had been a purely strategic move. Crowley had placed himself squarely on the side of the ragtag team opposing Lucifer and they’d needed every single one of them functioning at full capacity to have had even a chance at success. What he hadn’t expected was gratitude. 

The look in Bobby’s eyes when the words sank in, the dawning realization that he was no longer as helpless as he had considered himself, even those wide-eyed first faltering steps to stand up, it all paled before that genuine, heartfelt, “Thanks.” That one word had influenced everything else Crowley did after it, because for that one brief moment someone had looked past the demon to acknowledge his deeds.

Old habits died hard. Crowley laced his new-to-him battered old boots tightly and tied the laces in neat, even bows. Then, when he had dragged out the moment as long as possible, he picked up his old apocalypse era phone. “I’m surprised you brought this back. Nostalgic for old times? I’ll have you know, I’m still an expert kisser.”

Bobby huffed a laugh. “Fat chance. There just ain’t so much that’s stealable from that memory. That is, unless you want the hunting gear from the Impala’s trunk.”

“I think I’m good with old rusty over there,” Crowley replied, indicating the sickle with a thumb. “But in all seriousness, I’m glad you brought my phone back so I could do this.”

He pulled up the picture of him and Bobby sealing their deal with a kiss. Moving slowly so Bobby could watch, he deleted the photo. Then, to demonstrate it had been the only one, he tapped back to the gallery and held it up for Bobby to see.

Shaking his head, Bobby asked, “Why’d you go an’ do that?”

“Obviously so you’d know I don’t intend to hold that over you,” replied Crowley. “The old me needed all the leverage he could get. New me is more than content to drink your booze and beat you at chess.”

“You forgot the part where you also read my books, raid my kitchen, borrow my closet on a full time basis, an’ invite yourself along for pedicures,” said Bobby.

Crowley smiled. “What else are friends for?”

Bill chose that moment to stand on a chair while holding Ellen’s hand, proclaiming, “I asked her to marry me again and she said yes! I hope you’ll all come along, because we’re revisiting another memory today and I think we might need a hand getting back out again.”

Grinning, Charlie shouted out, “Merry Christmas everyone!”

Slipping the phone in his pocket and donning the jacket, Crowley left the sickle on the bar. He’d ask Ash about a good place to stash it in the bar later, in case of emergency, but he had no need to carry it around with him. It was nothing but a memory, and Crowley was building better ones.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before Christmas, but I always knew it wouldn't be done until after. Fortunately, Christmas can be whenever you feel like it in Heaven.
> 
> If you liked this, I'd love to hear from you. Comments and kudos are what fuel my writing. And if you feel like watching me struggle with words, you can find me on Tumblr as [thayerkerbasy](https://thayerkerbasy.tumblr.com/).


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